I’ve been working on being a little more giving lately. The homeless and the beggars here in Mexico have a hell of a tough life. To be honest I can’t fathom how they survive day to day. Old women, and by old I mean like ninety years, holding out a small box of Chicklets. Cripples with nothing but a can tied around their neck because they’ve no arms to hold it. The list goes on. And while it seems on the face of things that the numbers of beggars is far less than I’d encounter on a quick walk to dinner in Chicago, the lives they face are most certainly worse.

So I’ve been trying to remind myself lately just how little a ten peso coin means to me and spread them around a lot more freely than I have been. And actually I’m not sure what happened because Ali and I have had these discussions a lot in the past and have gone through spurts where we try and be more generous. I mean we’ve seen a lot on our travels and certainly have come to realize just how good we’ve got it.

And man I’ll tell you it feels damn good to spread a little cheer. I love buying a Chicklet for ten pesos and then having the lady try and explain to me that I can have four more. A flurry of holy crosses is always sure to follow when they hear the words, “No gracias senora. Buenos dias.”

Today I passed a crippled up old man on my way to pick up tacos. So I bought a couple extra and asked him if he was hungry as I walked past again. He looked up at me but couldn’t talk. Literally couldn’t. The guy can’t talk, has one good arm, no good legs, and sits on a bridge all day. I handed him the bag, and when he felt the heat from those fresh tacos you should have seen the smile break out on his face. Priceless.

Anyway, the point of this post isn’t to toot my own horn for handing out a couple bucks a day to those far less fortunate than I, but to remind me once again down the road when I’ve forgotten this little lesson again. And I don’t doubt that I will forget. It’s easy to look away, pretend you didn’t see that person, and go on your merry way. The hard part is to look them in the eye instead.

Ouest and I were out for a walk this morning when we popped in to grab her a taco. This particular taco stand is funny in that it is in a touristy corner of town on the outside of a building that houses nothing else but trinket/t-shirt stalls. Yet in that unlikely location it puts out probably the best tacos and quesadillas in town. And best of all there is never anyone but locals gathered around the counter on bar stools.

I’ve always hated breakfast. I don’t eat eggs, which in the States pretty much leaves pancakes as the sole exception on the menu. But Mexico, my wonderful Mexico, takes care of me like nowhere else. Chilaquiles. I have a love affair with them. Corn tortillas simmered in red or green salsa, some cheese, onion, chicken or steak, and a side of refried beans. Throw some spicy salsa on top of that and you’ve got a meal fit for a hangover.

Anyway, when I ordered Ouest her taco I saw the cook serving up a beautiful made from scratch plate to another customer and at thirty-five pesos I couldn’t resist getting my own. So glad I did. Best in all of Mexico. And I’ve eaten a hell of a lot of chilaquiles. I told the cook who smiled and said everyone tells her that. Hard to be modest when you’re the best.